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Down and Out in Flamingo Beach
Marcia King-Gamble
MILLS & BOON
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
With grateful thanks to my agent Amy Moore Benson.
Let’s hope the third one’s a charm.
Chapter 1
“So what do you think about Quen getting married?” the woman asked, her eyes never leaving Joya’s face.
Her ex-husband’s wedding was not something Joya Hamill wished to discuss with a stranger. But the question had come out of left field, catching her totally off guard.
The woman had come up to her and her grandmother unexpectedly as they’d emerged from Flamingo Beach Baptist Church. The congregation of mostly African-Americans dressed in their Sunday finery stood catching up on town gossip. Joya had been gazing at the women in their elegant wide-brimmed hats, stylish suits and hose, even though the temperature was well in the eighties, when the woman had swooped down.
Gathering out front was an after-service routine. Many came to church to see, be seen and catch up on Flamingo Beach’s gossip. Later that afternoon these same people would be eating their lavish Sunday dinner while discussing the outfits and speculating on who was doing who. Everyone was fair game, and if you weren’t up to snuff, guaranteed you would be trashed. As a result, the one Black-owned beauty shop in town did a thriving business on Saturday afternoons after paychecks were cashed.
When the church woman had first approached, Joya had thought she might be collecting for some charity, but she’d soon discovered that it was gossip she was after.
“And to Chere Adams at that,” the woman continued. “I would have thought he’d would have gone for someone slimmer.”
Mind you, the church lady was no lightweight herself. Now how to respond diplomatically without being rude? Not that she didn’t deserve to be put in her place, but Flamingo Beach was a small town and it didn’t pay to make enemies.
Joya let the warm Florida sunshine play over her cheeks. She tilted her head back, letting a balmy breeze ruffle her ponytail. She’d felt especially uplifted, even though it had been a lengthy Baptist service and the clapboard church had been warm and stuffy. She was a Catholic and used to a more somber mass. But she’d enjoyed the sermon because it was livelier than she was used to and the congregation took part. Joya had only gone because Granny J with her fractured ankle needed someone to drive her. And Joya just couldn’t say no to Granny.
Joya continued looking around her. Granny J was engrossed in conversation with a customer who’d bought one of her quilts and didn’t know how to launder it. But Joya knew she was still tuned into this conversation. The old lady’s hearing was sharper than that of most people half her age. At seventy-five she didn’t miss a thing.
“You must feel awful,” the woman persisted, her eyes darting over to the area where Quen Abrahams, Joya’s ex-husband, and his fiancée, Chere, were chatting with Jen St. George and her radio-personality husband, with whom she’d eloped. The two had scrapped an elaborate wedding and gone on a cruise. They’d gotten married at one of the ports of call.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to take my grandmother home,” Joya said, attempting to walk away.
The woman made no attempt to move. She leaned in as if exchanging confidences, “Everyone knows that woman is Ian Pendergrass’s ho.”
Joya needed to put a stop to it now. She wasn’t happy that Quen was remarrying, but not for the reasons most people thought. Quen getting married again was a reminder of just how single and without viable prospects she was. Flamingo Beach did not have the types of men Joya wanted. It was much too laid-back and too provincial. The moment Granny J’s ankle healed and she was given a clean bill of health, Joya was out of here.
“I need to get off my feet, hon,” Granny J said, breaking into the conversation. Her grandmother linked an arm through hers. “You’ll have to excuse us, dear.”
Granny J’s fractured ankle in its soft cast was mending just fine. Yesterday she’d been out and about shopping for hours. Joya knew that the grandmother she’d been named after was just trying to get her out of an awkward and insensitive situation.
“We do have to leave,” Joya said diplomatically. “Will I see you at Quen and Chere’s wedding?”
Looking visibly deflated, the churchwoman sputtered, “You’re invited? You couldn’t possibly be thinking of attending?”
Granny J, sensing Joya was about to lose it, tugged on her arm. “Honey, we really must go, my ankle is beginning to throb.”
Joya wished the woman a nice day, and she and Granny J walked away. Out of earshot she said, “Thank you, Gran, for saving the day. I was one step away from cussing her out.”
“Not even worth it.” Granny continued smiling and nodding at the people she knew, which was everyone. They picked their way through the crowd, heading toward a Lincoln Continental parked in the handicapped spot. The car was way too big and Joya hated it, but Granny J preferred a lot of padding around her.
“Just in case my reflexes fail me, dear and I get into an accident.”
Both Joya and Granny J were petite—maybe five feet two inches on a good day. Joya always wore heels and Granny J had a good fifty pounds on Joya. The younger woman had a milk-chocolate complexion. Her grandmother’s was a smidgen darker. They both had gray eyes. Because of weight and the fractured ankle, Granny was a little slower in gait. She’d refused to use the cane the doctor had given her, stating, “Only old geezers use canes, and I am not an old geezer.”
Truthfully, nothing was wrong with Granny’s faculties. She could remember the history behind every quilt she’d ever made. Her memory went way back, and her unlined face made people who didn’t know her believe she was at least a decade younger.
Joya depressed the remote button on the car’s